Picture of A Syndicate Soldier
by TrekPhile47
Summary: You know him as the Syndicate Soldier; but who *is* Alex Krycek?


Title: Alex's Story: Reflections of a Syndicate Soldier

Author: TrekPhile47

Email: TrekPhile47@hotmail.com

Rated: PG-13 (For all those teens with strong moral character.) Language is a little colorful, but its nothing we haven't heard (or said) have we? 

Keywords: Krycek, X Files, Biography

Synopsis: You know of him as the suave, smart-mouthed Syndicate Soldier. But who is the man behind the Rat? Would you be willing to hear what he thinks of himself? Can you look without covering your eyes? 

Disclaimer: No egos were bruised in the writing of this fanfiction. And, it's the same old routine: Chris Carter got to it before we did, so it belongs to him and his production company. Alex Krycek, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, CGB Spender (CSM), Marita Covarrubias, Dmitri, and anyone else who I missed also belong to Chris Carter (and the actors who play them, respectively). I of course, am obsessed, and have to write stories because Mr. Carter leaves the Ratlovers in the dark. Please, please don't sue me, I have no money, and I won't sign my firstborn over to you. 

Archive: Keep my name on it and tell me who you are. I like to know where my baby goes who reads it. 

Notes: Please, if you have any qualms about colorful language or somewhat questionable acts, please don't read this (and if you keep going and are offended, don't say I didn't warn you). I thought it was high time that Krycek got a chance to speak for himself, and this seemed like a good idea at the time. *I would appreciate feedback, although, I know you probably won't email me. Not cool. Kudos are met with kisses, flames are met with buckets of ice water. *I wonder if Gillian Anderson, David Duchovny, Mitch Pileggi, Nick Lea, or W. B. Davis read these fanfics? It's a fun thought. If Nick is reading this (I doubt it) I have a message for you: I love you! Will you marry me? Please?! One of your gorgeous smiles in person, and I'd die happy. *Sigh.* "Deep Water" belongs to Jewel Kilcher and to Atlantic Recording Company. 

Dedicated: To one of my best friends, Alex Ortiz (Ortega). Without her, I don't think I would have anyone to keep me writing, no matter how fruitless. I have to thank her for her patient understanding, despite the fact that she doesn't really understand. This one's for you, Ortega. -Thumbelina. 

"You find yourself falling down

Your hopes in the sky, 

But your heart like grape gum on the ground. 

And you try to find yourself

In the abstractions of religion

And the cruelty of everyone else. 

And you wake up to realize---

Your standard of living has somehow gotten stuck on survive." 

-"Deep Water" by Jewel

On with the story... 

***

Two weeks ago, I attended my parents' funeral. I heard only vaguely about the way they died: my father died in a car accident on the scene, and my mother followed in her hospital bed shortly after. I was so shocked that I couldn't grieve. I think it may have been something to do with my history. Maybe if they had died ten years earlier I would have grieved deeply. I am so ashamed that I can't shed a tear for them now. 

I was so hurt and angry not only with myself, but also with God (yes, I believe there is a God) took away my parents. I could do nothing but sit through the funeral service, looking forlornly at my parents in their matching coffins as they sat stoically waiting to be set into the ground. There were a couple of people who said some final words. I tried to hide behind my sunglasses (even though it was raining) so no one could see the black expanse that my soul had turned into. 

After they were buried, I went home. I was so angry that I tore my apartment apart, maybe looking for the Alex Krycek who had disappeared with the appearance of one man. 

I found no one. 

I had to invent a new me, but first, I had to look back. 

***

I was born in a small hospital in a small town in upstate New York. The day was a rainy March 12, 1970. As signed on the birth certificate, I am Aleksander Yurik Krycek, son of Zhorzh Rustem Krycek and Astra Nadezna Pavlikova Krycek. I changed the spelling of my first name later because it was a pain in my ass to keep correcting people when they misspelled it. 

I had a little sister, Mariya Mira, but she died four days after she was born from SIDS. She was buried in a little plot outside the tiny Greek Orthodox Church on the corner of our block. The place has been renovated, and I think that my baby sister's grave was dug up for the means of expansion. I was pretty sore-pissed when I heard about that, but when I did hear, it was too late and my sister was gone for good. 

My parents had gotten married only a day before they fled Communist Russia. They were frightened the entire trip to America, and they were always nervous when someone pounded on the door madly, worried someone was going to take them back to Russia. They left so that they could have children and a worry-free life in America. 

They only had two pictures of themselves that first day that they were married. One was of my mother in a nice blue dress with my father in a gray shabby suit holding her hand; my mother was holding wild daisies in the other hand and looking up at my father and not the camera, my dad was smiling worriedly at the camera. The other was of them wearing the same clothes, only kissing one another on the lips. Both of those pictures were the only memories they had of Russia to hold onto; I can see why they kept them all those years. Better to keep happy memories. 

My mother always was quiet and nervous, but loving. She always was over-worried about me; making sure that I was careful, making me wear a cloth scapular underneath my shirt, and praying for me all the time. I never understood her in that respect, although I'm pretty sure that she believed that Mariya's death was her fault-because she left Russia. She didn't want her only son to die also. 

My father, on the other hand, was foreign to me. He looked tough on the outside---he was tough on the outside. He was working, trying to get a jump on Capitalism, the Eighth Wonder of the World to him. Too bad that capitalistic madness gave him little money and a lot of ulcers. America was pretty cruel to her working class, especially the ones with the most desire to gain the upper hand. 

In Russia, he was a foreman of a small construction business, in America; he was a struggling carpenter, doing odd jobs. He had a degree in architecture, but he was working on tightening screws for people who were too lazy to it themselves. I struggled with him to teach him English when I learned so he could move up in the world, but he never caught on. He could say little phrases and could slur his way slowly through a paragraph, but then would get too flustered and I had to translate for him. 

My dad was teaching me how to be a man as I grew; he genuinely wanted to spend time with me, although he didn't get as many opportunities. He tried his best to lead me right, and I did mainly do right, I just strayed from the path once and a while (egging houses, getting into fights). He would look at me sternly, give a short lecture and dole out the punishment. 

I'm not angry with him for leading me right. From him, I am none the worse for wear. I can remember the look on his face when I screwed up: hurt and disappointment. He wasn't as hurt with me as he was with himself, he felt like it was his fault that I was bad. I was the one who always felt shame when he told me turn around and face my licks. 

I love my father because he did what he thought was best for me, and he save my life when I nearly drowned. I fell headfirst into a river while I was throwing rocks into it. The cold water flooded into my clothes and I could taste the murk in the river. I had fallen hard, though and I hit the rocky bottom of the river and was knocked out. My father jumped into the river, despite the fact that he couldn't swim. He carried me all the way home in his arms, shaking and cold, weak and frightened. I have never been able to thank him for saving my life. 

(And you know, every time I stare down the barrel of a gun, I can feel my father's strong hands on me, carrying me home as a shaking wet mass of flesh, scared and cold...but alive. There have been so many times in my life that I have cheated death, too, and I wonder if my dad saving me all those years ago screwed my one chance at actually dying.) 

My family wasn't rich like some people in Little Russia, but we weren't dirt poor. We held our own. I can remember gifts on my birthday: socks and underwear. I wasn't upset about it; up until turning fifteen, I hadn't known that American families with money gave their children toys. Even after fifteen, I knew why I got clothes from my family; I understood our status too well. 

At eight, I started working at Mr. Brezhnev's grocery store for about two bucks an hour. At that time, even in 1978, that was good money for an eight-year-old to be making in a Russian ghetto. I worked five days a week for every other week. I hauled around boxes and stacked shelves. It was so boring, but I got strong from it. I also earned myself quite a Russian and English vocabulary. 

I grew up in a neighborhood that was pretty close-knit. My best friend was a kid two years older than I named Ivar Gogal. He and I used to spend the entire day screwing off if we weren't with the other kids. Ivar wasn't one of those kids who humored younger ones to get stuff from them; he actually was a friend to me---a brother even. 

Ivar taught me a lot of things. Ivar was also there for me with my problems. I used to think that Ivar was the end-all of all people, he was very smart, and he looked out for me. But I also knew Ivar was pretty screwed-up because of his home life. He had a short temper, and there were times that he would take off for weeks at a time, I just had to wait until he decided he would come home. 

Along with Ivar, I had a scattering of other friends. Most of us were the children of Cold War refugees; the rest of us were just bastards of bastards of bastards. We never asked each other about our home lives all that much; we were all pretty screwed-up. You asked anyone any more than that; you got a mouthful of blood. That in and of itself was incentive for me not to ask anymore. 

I got into my share of fights. My first got me beat pretty bad; a broken nose and my tooth was knocked out (they ended up growing in straight). I didn't get any shots in, and was made to look like a complete fool. After getting into a fight with that kid, I was twice as cautious with my words and twice as strong with my fists. I always hauled one more box, ran just a little longer, and held my rope a little shorter. I can remember most of the fights, I got my fair share of licks, but I was never beaten again. 

School was rough at first. I knew only a little bit of English. I knew my name, my age, where I lived and a smattering of other things. My teacher was worried about me: I was too quiet and I didn't do well with easy things that kids my age should know. After school, she would teach me how to speak English and to write and read English. It took nine months, but I learned it. Soon after, I was speaking more English than Russian, and consequently, I lost my accent. 

I wasn't a bookworm though (not entirely): I just read the materials needed for class, and sometimes went farther. The only reason I didn't like school was the homework: homework was boring. I turned in completed homework only about three times a week per class. That was probably the only reasons I got C's, I aced all of my tests, but homework killed my average. 

In high school I studied a lot and began to pull up my GPA. I studied mostly science and literature, but I avoided art and history. Teachers were impressed with my dedication the subjects that I did enjoy. I finally started buckling down and doing work and got A's in all of my classes. I played sports a (more for the place in the yearbook than for the athletics), it took a couple of unsuccessful tries to find my sport. I ended up with football. I liked the coach, I liked running, and I loved beating the shit out of people: I got placed as a halfback. 

(I also started drinking in high school. My dad didn't freak out; he just accepted it, like it was a rite of passage. I didn't drink all that much, though. I couldn't afford being too drunk to do homework or to play football. I drink only occasionally now, I've seen to many results of drunk driving since Quantico. Same thing with smoking, although, I still smoke when I get nervous.) 

Obviously, girls came next. I strolled halls of Hamilton High with Ivar (when he was in town and felt like coming to school) and carefully checked out girls. There were a lot of pretty girls at my high school, and I didn't pass up the opportunity of a date or two. But, stupid girls are such a turnoff: I would rather date a girl who knows what she's talking about than one with the IQ of the trees that she hugs (though, sometimes, Marita came pretty close). I stuck with the girls I sat next to in my English Lit class. 

My first real girlfriend was Rita Ann Politz. She was in my Comparative Anatomy class in sophomore year of school. She was very smart and nice. I told Ivar about her, and he helped me out with talking to her. I finally got her to go on a date with me and soon after that, we went steady. She and I went steady for a year and a half; that is, until I found out she was cheating on me and had gotten pregnant. I told her that I loved her a lot, but she had obviously not loved me the way I did, and I wasn't up to having girls screwing me over. I told her that I would like to be her friend, but we could never get past that. 

...I guess everyone thinks that I am promiscuous because I am a spy. I wouldn't call myself "promiscuous," but I will admit that I have had my fair share. 

In the way of women, I don't know what happened with Marita Covarrubias. She was so damn pretty, and I just wondered why she paid any attention to me. I was all Syndicate Soldier, and she was Gucci and DKNY. It didn't make sense to me. It just seemed like I had to beg for her to look at me even, but she seemed to like me, so I went with it. (But let me let you in on a little secret about her: Russian, my ass-she was Aryan through and through with a good pseudonym and accent. But, what she lacked in truthfulness, she made up with sex and sweet talk.) 

I think you know how it ended with her: she got Dmitri and I got pissed. I should have known better than to trust her, but is the hormones, I tell you. I refused to talk to her. 

(When I saw Marita in that hospital, I couldn't stop thinking that somehow it was all my fault. She looked like a ghost; and her blue eyes, once sapphires, were ice. She looked like she had seen everything I had, but at the price of torture and eventual death. She was afraid of me; afraid I was going to actually hit her. I wouldn't have hit her, not seeing her like that. I wanted to hug her, to tell her it was all right, I wanted to do something for her, but by then, my heart was stone. I think that is the only sin of multitudes that I can never forgive myself for.) 

I graduated from high school with a 4.0 grade average. I then went on to college in Maine, where I studied more literature and science. College was a good experience for me, if nothing; I learned how to take care of myself. I was a model student, I was a good friend and leaning post to my peers, I was a good son to my parents. I was the all-American Russian immigrant's son. I loved where I was sitting. I was on top of the world. 

I also learned that Ivar had died. He had fallen into a depression after he'd (barely) graduated high school. He dropped out of college and became a drug addict. He had decided to do heroin one night. He was found in his apartment four days after he'd OD'd, the shoelace was still tightly around his arm. I was upset for days, and I swore to God that I wasn't going to take Ivar's death as a lesson unlearned. 

It wasn't until my senior year that I dramatically decided what I wanted to do: I wanted to be a cop---not just any cop, either: I wanted to go into the FBI. 

I graduated from college early with a degree in forensics (call me a Science geek...), and was accepted into Quantico my first application try. I was 21 and pretty fresh, but my teachers at Quantico were very hopeful that I was going to do well. 

I was in my third year of Quantico when CGB Spender approached me. He made me an offer to work for him. I was skeptical at first, I wasn't sure that I wanted to do what he considered work. He showed me a folder of his work that if Mulder saw, he'd piss himself. Spender told me all I had to do was finish my training at Quantico and he'd accept me. 

It only took me three days to figure out I didn't want to be a working stiff my entire life, fighting on the corporate ladder like my father had. I finished my training and Spender sent me on my first job: I needed to make sure I delivered one Agent Dana Scully to Duane Barry so he could get her to the Syndicate. Scully was part of the big picture, to egg on Agent Fox Mulder to his cause. 

God was I ever green when I met Mulder. I really had no idea what I was doing when I got my assignment. Honestly, if I hadn't been doing Satan's mission, I would have gotten to know him better. If I didn't know the truth, I would have joined his Crusade. 

I fed Mulder a lot of bullshit about worshipping him: I really had heard very little about him, just that he was sort of off his nut. The more I wanted to do a good job for Spender, the more I was sucking up to Mulder for his kudos (and no, although accused, I haven't done anything freaky with him, I honestly don't swing that way). 

Through the lies, there was the one truth that I tried to be a good Federal Agent, despite my Syndicate soul. I don't think Mulder had a clue as to what I was doing until it was too late: he was too busy worrying about the "Truth" and his partner, Scully. I just dropped off the face of the Earth. 

And time marched on. 

Ignorance must be bliss. 

***

I find it strange that just a small taste of the glory that Spender had showed me had soured my entire mouth and my demeanor. I found it devilishly easy to run hidden agendas, I liked being sneaky. Being a general son of a bitch came easily to me. Perhaps too easily. 

Being with the Syndicate has made me cross paths with Mulder more than I have wanted. He may be older than I by at least five or six years, but I think that people would take me with more respect. I think Mulder knows it, too. You can see the angry gleam in his eyes when he beats me up. If Spender would let me I'd lay that FBI butt-kissing, self-righteous jerk on his ass. It would take me back to my football years and I could use the workout. 

Dealings with Skinner haven't gone well, either. I have to smirk when I think of the fact that I actually have the power to take a life---his life. But then again, would I? I was pretty daring that one time, but as you know, Skinner wasn't to stay dead: I had to bring him back. I'm not so sure I could do it again; but then again, I wouldn't put it past myself. I _have_ practically sold my soul to the devil. 

Dana Scully is also a phantom menace of sorts. There isn't a day that goes by that I look at her forbidden offspring that I don't think that I am their fault. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't see a surgical table and see Dana strapped to it, unconscious, or begging for her life. She was so beautiful to me, but I knew I could never have anything with her-I can't even get her to turn a kind eye on me. She knows as well as I do that she is barren and cancer-ridden because of me. You try to sleep peacefully knowing that. 

I still have my FBI badge. It is somewhere along with my knives and lighters that my father brought over from Russia. I try to avoid the badge: its too much like looking at my father, and knowing that I was slowly turning from (relatively) innocent guy into a black-hearted, son-of-a-bitch, back-stabbing, faceless rat. 

Things between The Syndicate and I soured around the same time as Spender left me in that missile silo in North Dakota. If you saw the goings-on from the outside, you wouldn't really have noticed. But, nonetheless, it was happening. Everyone who had doubts about me in the beginning were starting to shun me like a dog that stained the carpet. Spender started his string of abuse, and of course, lack of faith in my abilities. At that point, I began to realize maybe I shouldn't have jumped on this "golden opportunity." 

My parents had no idea what my Truth was: they figured that I had gone into the CIA or something. I tried my best to make it up in my heart with checks from the money Spender was paying me to do his dirty work. After all, my parents would never read about my evil deeds: I was above the law. 

Though somewhat above the law, I am not above the danger of the Syndicate. After all, I lost my arm. I honest to God see red when I think about it. I can't believe I let my arm get taken off by a bunch of Russian rednecks. You go through having a searing knife being sawed back and forth through your skin and bones and you tell me what pain is. 

With all of the science and technology that the Syndicate has, wouldn't you think that they could give one of their won a new arm and not a goddamned prosthesis? I got a poor substitute. My "arm" barely moves and it makes my shoulder sore and the skin breaks because of the leather straps. I feel the phantom pains of the arm and the phantom itching is enough to make me go insane. I begged Spender to have mercy on me, to stop all the unnecessary pain, but he refused. Another one of the Syndicate's ways to making sure I was really low on the totem pole. 

For the majority, I can respect Spender, but nothing more than that. You'd think since I work for Spender, I would know his true colors. He doesn't have any. If anything, the man is muted gray. He never lets anyone know the entire story, and he likes to sleep with the enemy. ...He likes to test the waters of every sea. I've seen too much of his work, and frankly, despite most of my ice exterior, some of it sickens me. 

I know I've done low things for the Syndicate, but I didn't kill William Mulder. I swear to God. I swear on the head of my father. Spender had done a deal with the Faceless Rebel and it was against me. He got rid of his ex-business partner, and he almost got rid of me. I can tell Mulder until I turn blue in the face, but he won't believe me (and yet, if the tides had turned, _I_ wouldn't believe me.) ...Though with Melissa Scully, my hands are red. (Another to add to the list for St. Peter to use against me.) 

And yet, I have also "slept with the enemy." I wasn't lying when I offered to kill Spender in front of Well-Manicured Man. I wouldn't be the only one who wouldn't be well-off to see Spender picking turnips with a step-ladder. 

It is of little comfort that I am not the only person who wants to see Spender dead. Even First Elder wanted him gone when he was still "alive." Spender is too powerful for the Syndicate. He does not wear the mantle of power well. 

Oft times, Spender walks alone. But I know as well as he knows that he hasn't got much time left. So, I was sent to train Baby Spender (you know him better as Jeffrey), but that didn't work out too well. Of CGB's own flesh and blood, and the kid freaked out at the sight of the Faceless Rebel. You can lead the horse to water.... He had hopes for his Project, but they, along with most of the Syndicate were destroyed with the enemy who were upset at how bad he was in bed. He has no one to live in his stead. If anything, as I am the youngest remaining member in the Syndicate: I am the only logical choice to lead on the Crusade. 

But, Spender has been known by most to defy logic. Spender can't accept that I could enable the next Project. He would rather throw himself to the Faceless Rebels than to see me be an heir to the Syndicate Glory. 

If Spender wants to burn in hell by himself with no legacy, all the better for me. If I hadn't known him as well as I do, I wouldn't be too upset. Unfortunately, I do, but I can't change that now. I will assure you one thing: if he tries to cross me again, I swear to God I will cut off his balls and sell them to Mulder in a display jar. ...With an added picture as a peace offering. 

So now, five years after it all started, the floodwaters are slowing to a small trickle. It's been a long time since I have done anything worthwhile for the Syndicate (but then again, what is worthwhile when you are destroying your existence?). I'm sure thought that Spender has plans for me (good or bad, I don't know) and, I will obey. If anything, I am a servant: mindless and subservient. 

***

And now, I sit in the remains of my apartment. 

If I could change things, I would do it in a heartbeat. I would go back to high school, and try to lead somewhat of a more honorable life. I would go to college and be an English Literature professor, or a scientist. ...I would lead a quiet life; I'd hide from anything remotely Syndicate-like. 

I look inside myself and I am flagrantly disgusted with what I have become. I can't look past the fact that I have become so uncaring and unforgiving. How can I be this way when I was so young and so bright eight years ago? How can a 29-year-old like me be so cynical and so dark? 

And what hurts the most is that I can't go back to what I used to be. I can't take back everything I have done. I can't bring the people I killed back to life. I can't go to Scully and hand her back what I took from her giving her to Barry. I can't tell Mulder I am sorry about his sister, I can't ask to help him with his cause. I can't just tell Skinner that I know how to cure the disease I had been controlling for so long inside of him. 

I have fallen into a viscous circle. 

I don't know how to escape it. 

I can only beg that one day I'll be killed by a Syndicate mission. Maybe then, I can get peace of mind. Maybe then, I can stand in front of God and atone for my sins. 

Until then, all I can do is burn. I burn in a Hell I created. 

-End-

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